I Swear I Don’t Want to Be Everyone’s Favorite - Chapter 51

Jiang Luoyue detected the obvious teasing tone in the woman’s voice.

She sighed helplessly, “Guide.”

Just a nickname made Xiang Fan surrender and step aside. Jiang Luoyue lowered her gaze and saw the small room, which, aside from the bed being relatively clutter-free, had papers scattered messily across the desk and a black-and-white movie playing on the TV at a very low volume.

Under the dim yellow light, everything seemed incredibly retro.

Xiang Fan, however, misinterpreted her gaze. As she tidied up the items, she explained, “It’s a bit messy. I was busy earlier.”

A private space could be arranged however one liked, and Jiang Luoyue understood that. Yet, her mind suddenly drifted to Yu Jingtang’s home. At least the living room was neat and orderly, was her bedroom the same?

As Xiang Fan motioned for her to sit on the folding chair, Jiang Luoyue noticed a stack of scripts on the desk, many parts circled in pencil. She glanced at them they were all for later scenes.

“Did the screenwriter change the plot?” Jiang Luoyue asked casually.

During her time on set, Jiang Luoyue had never met the screenwriter of Yin Hun. She couldn’t help but assume the person was highly renowned and too busy to stay with the crew.

Xiang Fan raised an eyebrow slightly. “I made the changes.”

Jiang Luoyue looked puzzled. “Won’t she be upset?”

Finally understanding the misunderstanding, Xiang Fan chuckled. “What I meant is, I am the screenwriter.”

“Go on,” Xiang Fan said, sitting across from her and looking at Jiang Luoyue with leisurely composure. “What brings you to me so late at night? Want Screenwriter Xiang to add more scenes for you?”

Jiang Luoyue was momentarily bewildered, blinking a few times. “You?”

It wasn’t that Jiang Luoyue didn’t trust Xiang Fan, but most of the screenwriters she had worked with in the past were worn out from constant revisions, looking listless and drained. In contrast, Xiang Fan was spirited and energetic, looking as if she could take on ten of Jiang Luoyue in a fight, hardly fitting the image of a screenwriter.

Xiang Fan asked, “If not me, who did you think it was?”

Jiang Luoyue named a few screenwriters she had collaborated with before. Xiang Fan replied nonchalantly, “They’re all busy lately. If you want to act in their projects, you’ll have to wait until next year.”

Jiang Luoyue was speechless for a few seconds before sighing. “I’m not here to ask you for resources.”

How did it suddenly become “wanting to act in their projects”? Did Xiang Fan invent a new set of semantics?

“Mm,” Xiang Fan nodded. “You didn’t ask, but I want to give.”

Jiang Luoyue was confused. “Why?”

“Do you ask why you need to eat or why you need to sleep?” Xiang Fan evaded the question. “Wanting to give is just a normal thing.”

Jiang Luoyue, however, replied seriously, “Not eating or sleeping will kill you, but not giving me resources won’t.”

Xiang Fan was taken aback. After a few seconds, she took a deep breath. “If anyone else spoke to me like this”

Jiang Luoyue immediately lowered her head and behaved meekly. Xiang Fan couldn’t help but laugh, recalling how people online often described them as sharp-tongued, portraying Jiang Luoyue as a helpless little pity. Though the little one was indeed pitiful and adorable, which little one could speak so bluntly?

Xiang Fan pretended to be angry, her expression turning cold as she put on her glasses. “If there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work.”

In her original script, she had imagined Jiang Luoyue would freeze and then hurriedly explain herself. But after hearing her words, Jiang Luoyue hesitated briefly before actually standing up to say goodbye,

The frost on Xiang Fan’s face melted away, and she nearly laughed in frustration. “Did you come here just to annoy me?”

Jiang Luoyue finally remembered the purpose of her visit and spoke up with forced courage. After hearing the whole story, Xiang Fan suddenly remarked, “You’re more suited to be a screenwriter than I am.”

“Why do you say that?” Jiang Luoyue, worried that Xiang Fan was still upset, played along as the straight man.

Xiang Fan sighed in admiration, “Your neurons are highly active, your imagination is rich, and you possess a truth-seeking heart. You have the makings of a great talent.”

Before Jiang Luoyue could process this, Xiang Fan’s tone turned serious. “I won’t lower my standards for anyone not for Fang Yuan and the others, and not for you either.”

“The leniency you perceive from me is only because you’ve met my expectations. Jiang Luoyue, you are excellent. Don’t underestimate yourself that is an unchangeable fact.”

Hearing the woman’s earnest words, Jiang Luoyue unconsciously pursed her lips.

In her life, she had received straightforward praise so rarely that every time it happened, her first reaction was to space out. She feared the praise wasn’t truly meant for her, worried that such words would unsettle her and disrupt her entire day.

As her thoughts drifted, Jiang Luoyue noticed many details, like how Xiang Fan’s glasses had no lenses, merely a silver wire frame that suited her perfectly. Or how the scattered light catching on Xiang Fan’s brows looked soft and fuzzy, like the tails of animals huddled together.

Noticing her distraction, Xiang Fan called out, “Jiang Luoyue.”

Jiang Luoyue snapped back to attention and nodded emphatically, “I understand.”

Xiang Fan narrowed her eyes at her and reiterated, “You really are excellent.”

Jiang Luoyue: “I really do understand.”

When Xiang Fan repeated it a third time, warmth finally crept up Jiang Luoyue’s cheeks. She felt an urge to cover Xiang Fan’s mouth but hesitated due to the other’s status. She could only let Xiang Fan continue with those pleasing words, her ears gradually turning crimson.

This was the first time Xiang Fan had seen Jiang Luoyue so compliant, like a sloth that moves only when poked, making her unconsciously smile behind her glasses. Unfortunately, she seldom praised others and quickly ran out of vocabulary.

Not wanting to ruin the perfect image she had left in Jiang Luoyue’s mind, Xiang Fan tactfully saw her out: “If you have any issues later, feel free to come to me anytime.”

Xiang Fan emphasized the word “anytime,” but Jiang Luoyue’s attention wasn’t on that. Returning to her room, she lay on the bed, trying hard to close her eyes, yet Xiang Fan’s words kept echoing in her mind.

To make her praise seem less hollow and more convincing, Xiang Fan had cited numerous scenes and even calmly criticized other actors, all to boost Jiang Luoyue’s confidence.

You’re really excellent, you’re truly outstanding.

Late at night, Jiang Luoyue tossed and turned in bed again, suddenly realizing that the room in the dead of night wasn’t as silent as she had imagined.

It seemed that just by opening her eyes, she could hear the sound of movies from Xiang Fan’s room, the soft rustle of a pen gliding over paper, and Xiang Fan’s faint, muffled voice.

Taking a deep breath, determined to push the sleep-disrupting Xiang Fan out of her mind, Jiang Luoyue resolutely made a decision that defied her biological clock.

At two in the morning, she opened Weibo and began solemnly patrolling her super topic in the darkness.

There’s a well-known joke in the entertainment industry: put a pig on 800 hot searches in a year, and it’ll become a nationally famous internet celebrity. Although Jiang Luoyue didn’t have the luxury of 800 hot searches, she had gained nearly a million fans due to the recent buzz.

Never mind how many of those million were genuine, but there were certainly plenty of active users among them.

This was evident in the fact that when Jiang Luoyue browsed her own super topic now, she couldn’t find a single post venting frustrations or sharing thoughts, only blog posts filled with her photos.

The photos spanned from her childhood to the present, and one even showed her with a missing tooth. Jiang Luoyue felt extremely awkward and couldn’t understand how people had managed to dig up these old pictures. Then, someone bumped a post made by an account with a random string of characters.

The content of the post was simply sharing these photos.

Jiang Luoyue clicked into the account’s profile it was a new account with no content other than photos related to her. The latest update, posted just a few hours ago, featured daily photos of Jiang Luoyue on the set of Yin Hun.

Judging by the angles, it seemed as if they were taken by someone from the crew.

Jiang Luoyue knew that her company would coordinate with the production team to take a few behind-the-scenes photos to share with fans.

She couldn’t help but suspect that this was a side account created by Yun Yue specifically for this purpose.

Still puzzled, Jiang Luoyue casually sent the account information to Yu Qing. Just as she was about to ask about its origin, Yu Qing, surprisingly still awake, replied instantly: “Is this your friend’s account? The set photos are quite good. Who is it? The company will coordinate with them later.”

Jiang Luoyue was baffled: “I don’t know her.”

“…?”

After a string of ellipses, Yu Qing sent a flurry of question marks, exclaiming in shock: “You don’t know her? Then where did she get these photos?”

Especially the photos from the Yin Hun set. After all, the filming location was extremely remote and tightly controlled. In the few days since filming began, Jiang Luoyue had never encountered any “unauthorized photographers.”

Both of them were completely in the dark.

Yu Qing tried to reassure her: “Maybe it’s a fan who really likes you and happens to work on the crew.”

That was the best-case scenario. Jiang Luoyue accepted this explanation and fell asleep, still feeling confused.

Perhaps because she hadn’t stayed up so late in a long time, Jiang Luoyue slept restlessly. Her dreams were bizarre and chaotic, and it wasn’t until her alarm rang for the third time that she jolted awake from a nightmare.

Jiang Luoyue was almost late and looked listless all morning, making several mistakes.

When filming was halted yet again, Xiang Fan stepped out from behind the camera. His expression was calm, but he placed his hand on Jiang Luoyue’s forehead.

“You’re not sick,” Xiang Fan said.

Jiang Luoyue apologized, “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t explain that she “hadn’t slept well,” as that was hardly an excuse for mistakes that delayed everyone.

Her face was full of remorse, but the crew members she looked at didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, they seemed to take it for granted.

In Xiang Fan’s productions, if actors didn’t mess up dozens of times, could it even be called one of his films?

“Take a few hours to rest. We’ll resume filming in the afternoon.”

Xiang Fan gave the order, and Jiang Luoyue had no reason to refuse. After catching a couple of hours of sleep, she felt much more refreshed. When she returned to the set, the crew was filming the last scene of the morning.

For the first time, Jiang Luoyue stood behind the camera, sharing the director’s perspective. This was an experience she had never had before. She looked up at the screen, watching the actors deliver familiar lines.

Watching a performance from outside the frame was a completely different feeling from being immersed in it. Many scenes that Jiang Luoyue had considered perfect were repeatedly adjusted and rejected by Xiang Fan. Yet, when everything was executed according to his direction, the shots became exceptionally seamless, blending together as if they weren’t acting but reality unfolding just moments before.

For the first time, Jiang Luoyue experienced the director’s charisma so directly.

Until the scene wrapped up and lunchtime arrived, seeing Xiang Fan turn around, she mimicked the earlier praise and said, “That was impressive.”

Xiang Fan took the lunch box from the assistant director and casually unwrapped the chopsticks for Jiang Luoyue. “Praising me won’t make Director Xiang go easy on you.”

“Luoyue,” she lowered her gaze, her voice softening as if amused, “how come a few compliments made you forget how to act?”

Jiang Luoyue had no choice but to explain, “I’ll adjust my state.”

Xiang Fan replied, “Your health comes first.”

Jiang Luoyue nodded to show she understood.

Xiang Fan had deliberately chosen to start filming during the local rainy season. Today, the sky was similarly misty, with a light drizzle and a gentle breeze brushing against their faces. Jiang Luoyue shivered unconsciously.

Xiang Fan handed her a jacket. Jiang Luoyue hesitated for a few seconds but eventually took it.

The accommodation was too far from here, and going back would take time.

Xiang Fan accepted the thanks with ease and was about to tease her when the assistant director suddenly announced that the equipment on the neighboring set had malfunctioned. She had to hastily eat a few bites before getting up to fix the machinery.

By the time she returned, Jiang Luoyue had already gone for makeup, but the lunch box on the table was still warm, clearly reheated by someone.

Xiang Fan smiled, picking up the long jacket from the chair that no longer carried Jiang Luoyue’s warmth. Just as she was about to take her phone out of the pocket to thank Jiang Luoyue, she noticed an incoming call from an unfamiliar number.

Before she could answer, the call ended automatically. In the brief flash of light, Xiang Fan saw seventeen missed calls from the same number.

Instinctively, she tried to unlock the phone to call back, but the screen displayed a message: “Fingerprint not recognized.”

Xiang Fan froze, only then realizing the phone was entirely white it wasn’t hers. And aside from her, the only person who had touched this jacket was Jiang Luoyue.

It was obvious who the phone belonged to. Xiang Fan chuckled to herself, wondering how someone could forget their phone. Not wanting to delay any important matters, she stood up, in a good mood, ready to see Jiang Luoyue again in the makeup room. But just then, the same number called again.

“…”

By the time the call connected for the eighteenth time, Jiang Yu had already lost hope, her heart growing increasingly heavy.

She stared at the opened test report on the table, where the line “Supports Jing Lan as Jiang Luoyue’s biological mother” stood out prominently. Another report, comparing Jiang Luoyue and herself, confirmed her earlier suspicions.

Jiang Luoyue was Lian Yan.

Her long-lost Lian Yan.

She had received the test results early in the morning and, within just a few hours, had come to accept the truth. She wanted to contact Jiang Luoyue, eager to bring her back into the Jiang family and under her protection.

But every call she made went unanswered.

Once or twice, Jiang Yu could rationalize that she might be busy. But nearly twenty times? Could it mean that Lian Yan already knew and was deliberately avoiding her?

Frowning, Jiang Yu opened the folder labeled “Lian Yan,” filled with photos of Jiang Luoyue.

The most recent ones were from half an hour ago.

In the pictures, Jiang Luoyue seemed to be chatting with someone near the camera, relaxed and completely unguarded.

Was this Lian Yan’s friend? Who could make her look so happy? Would she be this joyful when she saw Jiang Yu?

Her doubts intensified. Even though she had booked the earliest flight to the film set for the afternoon, Jiang Yu still felt restless and uneasy.

Every time she closed her eyes, she recalled Lian Yan’s accusations against the Li family on the show and the records she had read of Lian Yan’s suffering.

Though they were merely recorded words, they cut through Jiang Yu’s flesh like blades, sending waves of pain throughout her body.

Just as Jiang Yu was struggling to control her emotions and attempting to contact the film crew to locate Jiang Luoyue, the call unexpectedly connected.

Jiang Yu blurted out, “Lianyan ”

Only after the final syllable faded did Jiang Yu realize she shouldn’t have addressed Lianyan so intimately. From Lianyan’s perspective, over a decade had passed she must have long forgotten their childhood experiences. To her, Jiang Yu was nothing but a stranger.

This realization pierced Jiang Yu’s heart. Suppressing her emotions, she said, “This is Jiang Yu.”

“The Jiang family lost a daughter over ten years ago. If possible, would Miss Jiang, be willing to cooperate with a DNA test?”

Lianyan didn’t know that Jiang Yu had already obtained the test results through other means. To dispel any suspicion, the necessary procedures had to be followed.

Afraid Jiang Luoyue might refuse, Jiang Yu hastily offered an incentive: “Regardless of the outcome, the Jiang family will arrange three film roles for you as gratitude. You”

The response was a merciless cold laugh, followed by: “Do I need your three films? Get lost.”

Stunned, Jiang Yu thought she must have misheard. But before she could inquire further, the call ended abruptly with a sharp “beep.”

When she redialed, the endless ringing was replaced by the perpetual “busy” signal. Slowly, dread creeping into her heart, Jiang Yu finally understood,

She had been blocked.